


Learning to Love Myself Tonight

by gutsforgarters



Series: come on, now, try and understand / the way i feel when i’m in your hands [4]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Crushes, F/M, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Masturbation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pre-Relationship, References to Depression, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 01:41:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21486232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters
Summary: Beth's a little surprised that her crush on Daryl managed to survive her depression; if her love for her own family members felt dulled for all those months, then why should a schoolgirl’s infatuation weather that particular storm? But it had, and seeing him still gives her that same old pang.If anything, her feelings are even stronger than they were before.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Series: come on, now, try and understand / the way i feel when i’m in your hands [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541086
Comments: 9
Kudos: 49





	Learning to Love Myself Tonight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/gifts).
  * Inspired by [cross my heart, pretty darlin’, over you](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227051) by [kattyshack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack). 

> I asked Maj if she was tired of stories about Beth flickin' the bean, and she was like, "NEVER," so here we are, and here it is. I guess you could call this a prequel of sorts, in that it's set some time before the first chapter of _cross my heart_, which you should definitely go read if you still haven't yet. 
> 
> Title from "Just Pretend" by Emily Kinney. At this rate, I'm gonna run out of songs about masturbation.

Beth’s phone goes off, but she’s so absorbed in soothing a fussy Judith, not to mention willing the countdown on the microwave’s readout to go by faster, that she seriously considers ignoring it. It might be important, though, so she shuffles the baby around as carefully as she would a live grenade and wriggles her freed-up hand into her back pocket.

The first thing she registers is Mr. Grimes’s name, and her heart stills for a fraught second as a flush of preemptive panic sends chills down her spine and into her gut. Then she actually _reads_ the message, and she fumbles and drops her phone, wincing when it lands on the kitchen tile with a clatter. She stoops to pick it up, but the damage is done—Judith’s started to cry.

Carl looks up from where he’s doing his homework at the kitchen table, eyes wide in his round face. “Something wrong?” he asks, rising from his chair before Beth can answer the question, fingers still wrapped around his stubby No. 2 pencil.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.” Beth stands up and leaves her phone to languish on the floor, because calming Judith down is her immediate priority. “Butter fingers, y’know?”

Carl opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is drowned out by the beep of the microwave going off. Beth_ swears_ it was never this loud before, and if it’s harsh on _her_ ears, she can’t imagine what it’s doing to poor Judith.

“I got her,” Caryl says, dropping his pencil on the table and coming over to Beth with his arms extended. Beth passes the crying, red-faced baby over with special care, her own face pulling into an apologetic grimace. She’s the one who’s being paid to babysit, and here she is making Carl do her job for her.

But, well. She’s been pretty useless in general lately, hasn’t she? She’s been trying to do something about that, but so far, she’s only succeeded in fits and starts.

“Thanks, Carl.” Beth tries her hardest not to let her disappointment in herself show on her face, for Carl’s sake. She opens the microwave, cutting it off mid-beep, and removes Judith’s bottle, sprinkling a bit of formula onto her wrist to test the temperature. Yeah, should be fine. “I dunno what I’d do without you.”

Carl blushes, the red in his cheeks overwhelming his freckles. He ducks his head, mumbles, “It’s no big deal. I help Dad out with Judith all the time. M’ used to it.”

“Still, thanks.” And she hates to put even more responsibility on Carl, but she needs to reply to the message that’s waiting for her before Mr. Grimes calls in SWAT or something. “Hey, could you take her bottle for a minute? Your dad just sent me a text and I need to answer it.”

Carl’s eyes flicker, but he accepts the bottle from Beth without argument and tucks it against his baby sister’s lips, holding it there until she latches on and starts to suck. “Did something happen?”

He’s trying so hard to mask his panic, but Beth sees it anyway, because she’s not the only one who’s lost a parent. She shoots him a reassuring smile, then grabs a dishtowel and wipes the formula off her wrist.

“Nah, everything’s fine. He’s just gonna be a little late coming home, is all.”

Except that’s_ not_ all. If it was, she wouldn’t’ve fumbled her phone like a greased pig.

“Oh,” says Carl, shoulders slumping with undisguised relief. “Oh, okay.”

Beth retrieves her phone, checking the screen for cracks before clicking it open and going into her messages. She doesn’t have a lot—one from Maggie asking her if she wants to tag along to the supermarket tomorrow, one from Amy that she hasn’t read, and one from Mr. Grimes.

_Hey sweetheart. Something came up at the station & I’m gonna be running late. Just a heads up, Daryl’s gonna be stopping by to check in on things. Give Judy a kiss for me. _

Honestly, Beth should just be grateful that Mr. Walsh isn’t the one who’ll be dropping by—not that there’s anything _wrong_ with him, exactly; it’s just that he’s generally dismissive of Beth in a way that never fails to make her grit her teeth.

But at least she doesn’t have an extremely pathetic crush on Mr. Walsh.

Honestly, she’s a little surprised that her crush on Daryl managed to survive her depression; if her love for her own family members had felt dulled for all those months, smothered by the ghosts of the people she’d lost, then why should a schoolgirl’s infatuation weather that particular storm? But it had, somehow—it had. Seeing Daryl still gives her that same old pang; if anything, it’s stronger than it was before.

She’s pretty much resigned herself to never getting over him for the rest of her natural life, and maybe not even after.

“Mr. Dixon’s gonna be stopping by,” Beth informs Carl as she types a short reply—_Okay, thanks, I will_—and sends it off into the ether. She puts her phone away, then gestures for Carl to pass Judith and her bottle over. “Your dad asked him to check in on us.”

Carl’s face lights up, and it’s enough to make Beth smile despite her mounting anxiety. “D’you think he’ll stick around?”

“I dunno,” Beth admits, cradling Judith close. “Might, might not. I can always offer him some coffee, see if that tempts him into stayin’ a while.”

Without another word, Carl dashes over to the coffee pot, and Beth grins after him. Yeah, she’ll probably find a way to make a fool of herself in front of Daryl, but at least Carl’s happy. She’s happy, too—it’s just that her happiness is tempered by the dull sting of an unrequited crush.

Gosh, she really_ is _pathetic.

Beth’s settling a sleepy Judith into her crib when she hears the scrape of a key slotting into the lock. Rick gave Daryl a copy of the housekey a while ago, saying that he practically lived here, anyway, so there was no point in him knocking. Daryl had flipped him off, Carl had snickered, and Beth had turned her face into her shoulder to hide her smile—there was no need to encourage that sort of behavior, after all.

The front door squeals open—sounds like Rick needs to oil the hinges, although Daryl’ll probably offer to do it before he can—then claps back shut, and Carl’s off like a shot, returning a minute later with Daryl in tow. His fingers are curled in the hem of Daryl’s shirt like he’s afraid he’ll bolt, and Beth bites back a smile, not wanting Daryl to think she’s laughing at him.

“You gotta stay,” Carl’s insisting. “I got the new _Halo_ and Beth doesn’t know how to work an Xbox.”

Daryl extricates Carl’s fingers from his shirt—very gently, Beth notices—and says, “Shit, kid, ya think I do? Don’t know nothin’ about that crap.”

“You_ would _if you _learned_.”

“Carl’s right.” Beth crosses her arms and leans against the bars of Judith’s crib, smiling reflexively when Daryl glances her way. Well, at least she isn’t blushing. Yet. “And I’m gonna politely ask you to mind your language, Mr. Dixon.”

“What, you my babysitter too, now?” Daryl scowls at her, but the scowl melts away a second later, and his nostrils flare. “You just brew that?”

“Depends.” Beth sticks out her chin. “You gonna watch your mouth in front’a the kids?”

Daryl grumbles some, but he doesn’t cuss her out, either, so her implicit threat must be effective. He slouches off without another word, and Carl pouts after him for a second before turning to Beth and saying, “Beth, can you tell him to play _Halo_ with me?”

“I’ll try pleading your case,” she says, ruffling his hair on her way to the kitchen. “Watch your sister for me, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

Honestly, Beth doesn’t know why she’s following Daryl around like this, as good as a lovesick puppy. She should just save herself the embarrassment and keep their interactions to a minimum, but the fact is her heart gave a little leap when he walked—was dragged—into the den. It was a_ good_ feeling. She wants to feel it some more.

Daryl’s hunched over the coffee pot like a wolf with a kill, like he’s afraid Beth might confiscate it from him, one of Rick’s big mugs clutched in his hand. Beth doesn’t get why he’d want to drink coffee in the evening—caffeine before bedtime sounds like a bad idea—but she doesn’t know anything about Daryl’s sleep schedule, and it really isn’t her business either which way.

She lingers in the open archway, hands tucked behind her back. “Why don’t you just save yourself the trouble and mainline that stuff, huh? Could get you your own IV an’ everythin’.”

Daryl throws back a hearty slurp of coffee and mutely flips her off, and she smiles—grins, really.

He’s treating her the same as he always has, is the thing. She doesn’t know how much _he_ knows about—all of it—but, at bare minimum, he knows that she lost Momma and Shawn and that it hit her hard. He knows she’s been grieving, but he’s not tiptoeing around her like she’s a bomb set to go off.

Yeah, he treats her just the same: a little like she annoys the hell out of him, a lot like he mostly tolerates her presence because he’s friends with Rick and her daddy, but it’s not as if he hates her guts or anything. Might even like her well enough, in a distant sort of way.

You wouldn’t think she’d be this happy to be a pain in someone’s ass, but she is. Besides, she knows that he’d do just about anything for her if she asked, treating whatever favor he did her like it was no big deal and growling at her if she dared to thank him. 

Beth wanders over to where Carl left his homework open on the table, comparing the questions in his textbook to the answers on his worksheet. The _Halo_ soundtrack drifts out of the den and into the kitchen, and she huffs.

“What?” Daryl asks, and when Beth glances his way, he’s grimacing like he already regrets speaking up.

“He didn’t finish his homework,” Beth explains, stabbing her finger against the worksheet. “That sneaky little—” She stops speaking midsentence, because she can’t scold Daryl for using strong language only to turn around and do it herself.

Daryl’s eyebrows disappear beneath his shaggy bangs. “Don’ tell me y’ain’t never skipped out on homework before.”

Beth crosses her arms, pretending to be more insulted than she actually is. “Ya really think I’d do somethin’ like that?”

“Shit. All kids do.”

_Kid_. Hff. “Well, I _haven’t_.”

Daryl scoffs, and the corner of his narrow mouth hikes up into a wry half smile before turning down again. His smiles are always like that, there and gone, but it still thrills something inside of her to see him smile at all, and because of _her_—even if he’s probably making fun.

And, yeah, he definitely is, because the next thing he says is, “Guess I should’a ’xpected as much from a good girl like you, huh.”

Beth’s face sets itself afire, flushing so hot so fast that her skin prickles with it, and she ducks her head self-consciously. Daryl didn’t mean it like _that_—he can’t’ve. He just called her a kid, and even if he didn’t think of her that way, the fact that she’s his _friend’s_ kid would make it weird regardless. Still, hearing him call her that in his raspy, tobacco-rough voice, it—_did_ something to her. Made her feel something she hasn’t felt in a long, long time, not since—

Well. Not since.

“Uh, hey. Y’alright?”

When Beth drags her eyes away from the toes of her boots, it’s to find that Daryl’s ventured closer—still well out of reach, sure, as jealous of his personal space as he’s always been, but the look he’s giving her is one of naked concern. His coffee mug sits abandoned on the counter, and his empty hands curl and flex like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

Beth knows what she’d _like_ him to do with them, but it’s a reflexive, fleeting thought, drowned out by a wave of emotion that makes her eyes burn and her throat constrict. He’s just—he’s just so kind. Seems like a real jerk at first, and he kind of is, but he’s a good person underneath it all. She was totally checked out at the time, too lost in a depressive fog to really appreciate what he was doing for her family and Rick’s, but looking back on it, she knows he went above and beyond to look after everyone. He shouldered that burden, because that’s just the kind of person he is.

That’s why she likes him. Not because he’s attractive, although he is that. Not because he gives her goosebumps, although he does that, too. She likes him because he’s _good._

“Yeah,” Beth rasps, and the sound of her own voice makes her wince. It’s like she’s been crying, even though she hasn’t. Not recently, anyway. “Yeah, I, um, it’s just—I kinda fibbed there, I guess.”

Daryl’s eyes narrow into a confused squint. “_Fibbed_? ’Bout what?”

“Well, uh.” Beth clasps her hands, weaves her fingers together only to pull them apart. “About, uh, about always doin’ my homework. I didn’t. Not—not always.” God, but she sounds stupid.

Daryl looks at her like he thinks she’s ridiculous, and, yeah. That’s fair. He leans his hip against the counter and folds his arms, and Beth’s eyes trace the flex of hard, curved muscle before returning pointedly to his face. Now is _not _the time, Jesus.

“Ain’t a big deal,” he says. “What, you think you’re gonna go t’hell over forgettin’ to do y’r math homework or somethin’?”

Beth tilts her head to one side. It’s not like they’ve had a ton of theological discussions or anything, but she’s pretty sure Daryl’s an atheist. “Thought you didn’t believe in heaven an’ hell.”

“Nah. But you do.”

“I don’t think I’m goin’ to hell for skipping out on my trigonometry homework,” Beth says, and now she’s the one who’s smiling wryly. “It’s just, um. I wasn’t the best student for a while there. Y’know, because of, um, stuff.”

Yeah. _Stuff._

The vinyl tile creaks when Daryl shifts his weight, and, God, but Beth feels awful. He was just doing Mr. Grimes a favor, looking out for everyone the same as he always does, and now Beth’s dragging her crap to the surface and forcing _him_ to deal with it. It’s not his problem, so she shouldn’t _make_ it his problem.

“That ain’t y’r fault,” he says, with more heat than she would’ve expected, almost like he’s pissed off—not at her, though. Pissed off on her behalf? “Anybody says any diff’rent, you point ’em out t’me.”

Beth’s mouth twitches. “And you’ll, what—beat ’em up for me?”

Daryl snorts. Beth thinks he might be blushing, just a little bit. “Yeah, well, if Rick asks, ya don’ know nothin’ ’bout anythin’, alrigh’?”

Beth giggles, albeit nervously. “I, um, I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Dixon, but my daddy taught me that violence’s never the answer. Still, um, thank you. It’s—it’s nice’a you to offer.”

Daryl shrugs, mutters something that sounds like a brush off, and turns around to retrieve his mug. Beth watches him go, nostrils full of the rich scent of coffee and the earthier smell of his skin, and the feeling that stirred in her a few minutes ago flares up again, more intense this time, aching like a bruise under the pressure of a thumb.

_Oh, hell._

He’s not paying her any attention, but she still ducks her head and mumbles, “I, uh, I gotta go to the bathroom,” before hustling on out of the kitchen, not stopping until she reaches the first-floor powder room. She shuts and locks the door behind her, flicks on the harsh overhead light, and goes up to the mirror, bracing her hands on either side of the porcelain sink.

She looks feverish.

Her face is a splotchy pink, and her eyes are huge and dark and glittering. Her mouth looks soft and slack and startlingly red, almost like somebody’s been kissing it, and her chest’s rising and falling too fast beneath her tank top as she fights to steady her breathing.

She’s itching, she’s _throbbing_, and she wants nothing more than to shove her hand down the front of her shorts and_ do_ something about it.

She ought to be ashamed of herself, locking herself in the bathroom in some kinda hormonal tizzy when she’s _supposed_ to be watching Carl and Judith, but the fact is she’s too happy to care. She hasn’t felt like this since before Momma and Shawn and Lori died, since before she lost so much all at once, and now that she’s finally feeling it again, she could cry. And it’s not as if sexual arousal is the end all, be all of human emotion, but she_ liked_ feeling like this. She liked getting wet, and she liked getting herself off. She liked the pins-and-needles that tingled at the base of her spine, liked the tension that’d build as she coaxed herself closer and closer to a peak, liked the clutch and release of orgasm. Loved it, all of it.

She thought she’d lost this, too, but Daryl’s given it back to her. He has. And he’ll never know that, and she’ll never be able to thank him for it, but she’s so, so grateful.

She realizes, then, that her hand’s hovering in front of her inseam. She hesitates for a moment, then unsnaps her button fly and drags her zipper down. 

She’s not gonna—she’s not gonna_ do_ anything. She’s not gonna get herself off in Rick’s house, jeez. She just wants to feel it. It’s been so long since she’s touched herself for any other reason than to bathe or wipe herself down after going to the bathroom, and she wants to_ feel_ it.

She turns the sink on to full blast. Just in case.

Her fingers slide across her waistband, then take the plunge, combing through her coarse pubic hair and settling into the soft seam of her sex. Oh, God, she’s so wet. Wetter than she thought, and she has to bite down on her lower lip to hold in a noise that would surely give her away.

She slips and slides across her drenched lips, luxuriating in all that tacky warmth as she grows even wetter under her own touch. And she’s still not gonna get herself off—she’s _not_—but she wants to feel that spark that ignites whenever she touches her clit, wants to see if it’s as good as she remembers it being, so she drags her fingers up and up and—

Oh, God. She clutches harder at the sink, bends forward at the waist. It feels better than she remembers, maybe because it’s been so long, or maybe because Daryl’s heavy, earthy smell is still plugging up her nostrils, almost like he’s in here with her, like he followed her to the bathroom and caught her with her hand down her shorts. He’d be embarrassed at first, of course he would, but then she’d admit that she was thinking about him while she did it, and he’d wrap his hand around her wrist, drag _her_ hand out of her shorts, and suck the come off her fingers like it was bacon grease.

She rolls her longest finger over her clit, sets off another spark. Her teeth dig into her lower lip, fit to bite clean through.

What else would he do? What else? Turn her around, maybe, and prop her up on the lip of the sink, step into the space between her sprawled legs and kiss her slack mouth. He’d replace her hand with his and sink those thick fingers inside of her while he thumbed at her clit, would pant in her ear and scrape her skin up with his overgrown stubble. Tell her that she’s _good_, that she’s doing so good.

Her legs tremble. Her muscles clench.

And then, maybe—_maybe_—he’d drag her shorts and panties down her legs. Maybe he’d kneel at her feet and roll his face against her, run his tongue _over _her, get his beard all soaked with the smell of what he does to her. He’d get her off with his hard, hungry tongue, and then he’d push her bracelets up her wrist and kiss her scar, tell her he’s so glad she’s okay, so glad that she’s here with him, _so fuckin’ glad, girl_—

Her orgasm hits her like an electric shock, quick and startling and almost _painful_, and she huffs, whines, sinks her teeth into her forearm as she shudders through it.

Jesus. _Jesus._

She doesn’t come out of the powder room until she’s washed her hands twice, and even then, there’s nothing she can do about the mess in her panties. If Daryl smells that, if he even catches a _whiff_ of it, she’s never showing her face in public again. 

Maybe she’ll grab her backpack and return to the powder room, then take her panties off and stuff them inside of it. But then her zipper’s teeth might snag on something, and she thinks she’d rather wear come-soaked underwear around Daryl than no underwear at all.

Just—God. _Please_ don’t let him smell it.

He’s distracted enough right now, anyway, sitting in front of the couch and scowling at the TV screen while Carl tries to explain the Xbox’s controller to him. He looks about ten seconds away from just putting the thing through the wall.

Beth smiles at them, a little forced, a little strained, and goes over to check on Judith. Carl says, “You were in there for a while.”

She knows of one surefire way to discourage him _and_ Daryl from asking any more questions, so even though it’s a little embarrassing, she shrugs and says, “Oh, y’know. Girl problems.”

“_Oh_,” says Carl, with deep and evident disgust. As for Daryl, his heavy, awkward silence speaks for itself.

Beth rubs her pruned fingers together and tucks them behind her back before turning around to face them. The TV’s screen is a blur of color and motion, and neither Carl nor Daryl are looking at her.

Well. Not at first. Daryl’s eyes flicker towards her, and he tips up his chin as though to ask, _You good?_

Beth bites her sore lip. She nods, and Daryl returns the gesture before ducking his head to grumble something at Carl. 

Beth curls her fingers against her palm, holding them there like a secret, and this time, there’s nothing forced about her smile.


End file.
